The cool air of the chambers greeted Edric as he stepped inside, offering a rare respite from the unyielding Dornish sun. He pushed the door closed behind him, the solid click of the latch muffling the sounds of the world beyond. A sigh escaped his lips, soft and laden with the weight of the day. Sunlight spilled through the latticework of the ornate windows, casting intricate golden patterns upon the stone walls, bathing the room in a serene, warm glow.
Peeling his tunic from his body, damp and clinging as it was, felt like shedding the day itself. The fabric resisted for a heartbeat before he cast it aside. He reached for a towel left neatly folded on a nearby table. It was coarse to the touch but served its purpose, the motions of drying his skin grounding him.
He reached for the glass of water on the table, bringing it to his lips. The cool liquid slid down his throat, soothing the dryness brought on by the day's heat and exertions. Each sip was a small comfort, a fleeting luxury, as he allowed himself this solitary moment of stillness. The room was quiet save for the faint rustle of fabric and the steady rhythm of his breath. Yet, at the edges of his mind, the future loomed. Winterfell. The marriage. The cold. The expectations. The thoughts lingered like specters, but he pushed them back for now.
Setting the glass down, his gaze caught his reflection in its surface, distorted and pale. He wondered if the man staring back at him would withstand what lay ahead. The trials, the alliances, the sacrifices. With a faint shake of his head, he turned to reach for a clean tunic, the familiar routine of preparation a balm for his frayed thoughts.
The door swung open, breaking the silence like a blade. Arianne strode in with the effortless confidence of one accustomed to dominion, her every movement speaking of possession—of herself, of the space, of the moment. Her dark eyes flicked over the room in an instant, taking in the tossed tunic, the half-empty glass, and Edric himself, still bare-chested, the towel in his hand.
"Should I applaud your modesty," she said, her voice smooth and laced with amusement, "or scold you for the lack of a lock?" A smirk played at her lips as she leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, her presence as commanding as the sun that blazed outside.
Edric stiffened, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. "You could have knocked," he muttered, pulling the fresh tunic over his head and beginning to button it with deliberate precision.
Arianne's smirk deepened, her gaze sharp and unrelenting. "Knocking? How quaint," she replied, her tone drenched in mockery. "You still believe in such things as privacy?"
She stepped further into the room now, her sandals whispering against the stone floor. Each step carried an unmistakable grace, calculated and deliberate, her movements betraying her intent to unsettle. Her dark eyes lingered on him as he finished dressing, the faintest trace of amusement mingling with something unspoken.
"I thought I'd save you the trouble of finding me later," she continued, her voice light but edged with steel. "You seemed so eager to discuss our future over dinner. Why not speak of it here, without an audience?"
Edric frowned, his fingers pausing on the final button of his tunic. "Privacy hasn't mattered much to you before," he replied, his tone wry, though his gaze remained steady.
Arianne's expression softened into something inscrutable, her smirk widening as she took another step forward. The faint scent of her perfume reached him, floral and sharp, as intoxicating as the woman herself. "And don't mind me," she said, her brow arching in playful defiance. "I've seen worse than a Stark without a tunic."
Edric rolled his eyes but didn't rise to her bait, finishing with the last button before meeting her gaze fully. Her presence filled the room like the afternoon heat, inescapable and undeniable. Whatever she had come to say, it would not leave him unchanged.
"You're so... earnest," Arianne remarked, tilting her head slightly as her dark eyes narrowed with amusement. "As though you think that knocking means something here." There was a flicker of something sharper in her gaze, something she kept hidden just beneath the surface, but it passed quickly, and her voice resumed its teasing tone. "But I suppose you're not entirely wrong. I do like to test people's boundaries... even yours."
She leaned against the edge of the table, arms crossing over her chest, a casual posture that belied the intensity of her watchful gaze. "You're a curious one, Edric Stark. Always so... proper. So concerned with how things should be, even when it doesn't matter here. In Dorne, we don't have such pretenses. Not when the world's already watching us anyway."
Her words were a challenge, unmistakable in their intent. She studied him now, waiting to see how he would react—whether he would bend or break, or simply stand firm in the face of her tests. The air between them thickened, charged with an unspoken understanding of the rules they both knew, yet never voiced.
Edric's response came more firmly now, though the bite he wished for was absent from his voice. "I was raised with those pretenses," he said, meeting her gaze with steady eyes. "It's all I've known. In the North, there's a place for modesty, for privacy. It's how we maintain some semblance of control over what's ours."
Arianne's lips curled into a knowing smile, her eyes glinting with something darker. "Ah, but control is an illusion, Edric," she murmured softly, her voice smooth like silk, yet sharp as a serpent's hiss. "You can try to keep your walls up, but sooner or later, someone will breach them. The question is, when they do, will you resist... or will you let them inside?"
Her challenge lingered in the air between them, a weighty question he could not yet answer. She had never been one to shy away from testing boundaries, and now she was probing his own, testing his resolve. The space between them felt smaller, the air heavier with the weight of her words. Edric knew she was playing a game, but he couldn't quite grasp the rules—or whether he even had a part in shaping them.
Arianne's eyes flickered toward the door, breaking the tension with an abrupt shift in her tone. "But that's not why I'm here, is it?" she asked, her voice now taking on a more serious edge, the playful mockery giving way to something colder, more urgent. "My father wishes to speak with us. Something important. You've been summoned, and you'll want to be on time. Doran doesn't make requests lightly."
The change in her tone snapped Edric back to the present, the reality of the situation rushing back like a tide. Arianne stepped toward the door, but not before casting one last glance at him, her eyes unreadable, her smirk gone.
Without a word, they moved in silence down the stone corridors of the palace, their footsteps echoing in the quiet halls. Arianne moved with measured confidence, and Edric matched her pace, though her composure only served to deepen the unease that crept steadily in his chest. The silence between them felt heavy, as if she had already said everything she intended to, and now, the rest was left to the unspoken space between them.
Her dark hair swayed with each step, catching the light of the sconces that lined the walls, the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the air like an invitation and a warning. Despite the proximity, there was a distance between them, an unbridgeable gap forged by whatever it was Doran Martell wished to discuss.
As they neared Doran's study, the atmosphere shifted. The air grew cooler, the silence more pronounced, as though the very walls held secrets that could not be uttered aloud. Arianne slowed her steps just before the door, her hand pausing on the handle. She didn't look at Edric, but he caught the briefest flicker of tension in her eyes, a subtle shift that was gone before he could fully make sense of it.
Without a word, she opened the door, and the dim light from within spilled into the hallway, casting long shadows across the stone. Inside, Doran Martell sat behind his desk, his presence imposing even before his face came into view. His fingers rested lightly on the papers before him, his dark eyes, sharp and calculating, rose to meet Edric's as he stepped inside.
"Edric Stark," Doran said, his voice calm—too calm, as though the room itself held secrets that had not yet been spoken. "Arianne." His gaze shifted to his daughter as she stepped inside, moving to stand beside his desk, arms folded neatly across her chest.
The door clicked shut behind them, and the stillness of the room became suffocating, oppressive.
Doran studied Edric with an unreadable expression, his silence stretching between them, thick with expectation. Edric felt as though he were being weighed, measured for something he couldn't quite fathom. The scrutiny was palpable, yet there was something more in Doran's gaze—something deeper, contemplative, as if he were assessing not just Edric's actions, but the very essence of the man before him. Doran had seen much, and there was danger in that knowledge, but also an invitation—though whether it was to something grand or something perilous, Edric could not say.
"Please," Doran said, breaking the silence at last. "Sit. We have much to discuss."
Doran's gaze lingered on Edric for a moment longer than seemed necessary, his dark eyes steady and unblinking, as if appraising something hidden just beneath the surface. Then, with the slow grace that came so naturally to him, he sat back in his chair. His fingers steepled together before him, the posture deliberate, as though he were carefully crafting the words that would come next, weighing them with the precision of a master strategist. The silence stretched taut between them, thick with unspoken tension, but it was Doran who shattered it first, his voice smooth and measured, carrying with it a quiet authority that could not be ignored.
"I trust, Edric," Doran began, his tone mild but laden with meaning, "that you are aware of certain matters. Matters that are not often spoken aloud in the halls of Sunspear, or elsewhere for that matter." His eyes, dark and inscrutable, flicked briefly to Arianne before returning to Edric, as though seeking something in his expression, something that might give him the measure of the young man before him. "You are a man of knowledge, after all. A keen eye, a sharp mind. You must have seen the threads of these matters weaving themselves through the tapestry of our lives, even if you have yet to understand their full import."
The weight of his words hung in the air, and Edric could feel the pressure of Doran's scrutiny, the subtle shift in the room that signaled the beginning of a game—a game whose rules were only just beginning to be revealed. Arianne, standing silently at her father's side, said nothing, her arms crossed tightly as she studied Edric. Her expression was unreadable, but the stillness of her presence added an unspoken tension to the moment, as if she, too, were waiting to see how he would respond.
Doran continued, his voice dropping to little more than a whisper, as though the words he was about to speak were too dangerous to be spoken at a louder volume. "Viserys Targaryen," he murmured, his gaze unwavering, "and his sister Daenerys... They are not lost to the world, as some would have you believe. They live." The mere mention of their names seemed to charge the air in the room, heavy with the weight of history, of unspoken truths. "Their whereabouts are carefully guarded. They are in the Free Cities, far from the reach of the Iron Throne, and yet, not entirely out of its shadow."
There it was. The words, hanging between them like a breath held too long, carried the weight of a thousand unspoken questions. Doran's eyes narrowed just slightly, as though waiting for Edric's reaction, as if the very mention of the Targaryens in this room, in this context, demanded an answer—one that would not be spoken aloud, but understood nonetheless.
Arianne, ever still, observed her father's words with a sharp intensity, her gaze never leaving Edric's face. Her silence was its own kind of pressure, and Edric could feel the weight of it pressing in from all sides, as though she, too, were testing him. Waiting for him to make the right move.
"I imagine," Doran continued, his voice lowering still further, his gaze now fixed on Edric with a quiet, penetrating intensity, "you wonder why I speak of them. Why it matters to you. The answer is simple enough, though it is one we will explore in time." He leaned forward slightly, his eyes never leaving Edric's, his words deliberate. "For now, understand this: The world turns on forces you cannot always see, and the Targaryens... they are part of that turning. Whether you like it or not."
The gravity of his words settled into Edric's chest like a weight of iron, the implications sprawling like a vast shadow across his mind. The Free Cities, the Targaryens—what did Doran Martell want with this knowledge? Why share it with him now, in this moment, here in Sunspear? Edric's mind spun with the questions that swirled in his head, but Doran waited, steady and unyielding, his eyes locked on Edric's as though daring him to ask the right questions.
The tension in the room was palpable now, thick and suffocating, and Arianne's gaze never wavered, her eyes measuring him with the precision of a hawk. She seemed to test the waters of this conversation, gauging his every move, as though searching for some flicker of weakness, or perhaps some sign of understanding.
Doran's voice broke the quiet again, softer now, but no less laden with meaning. "Do you know of Elia, Edric?" he asked, his voice low but carrying an unmistakable edge of pain, one that seemed to settle over the room like an unexpected chill. "Of my sister, Elia Martell?"
The question hung in the air, a dagger poised just above Edric's chest. There was a beat of silence, a moment stretched thin with unspoken meaning, as though Doran were weighing the gravity of the words he had just spoken. His eyes never left Edric's, searching, probing, as if to see whether the young Stark understood the full weight of what was being asked of him.
Edric could feel the room grow colder, the air thick with the weight of history, of blood that had been spilled and promises that had been broken. He knew the name Elia Martell well, but he had never fully understood the depth of the pain it caused Doran. He had heard the whispers, the rumors of the princess who had been taken from her family, her life stolen away by the hands of the Targaryens. But to have Doran speak of her, in such a quiet, pained voice, was something else entirely.
For a long moment, Edric said nothing, his mind racing, trying to piece together the tangled threads of history and present danger. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he met Doran's eyes, his own gaze steady, though the weight of the room pressed heavily on him.
"Elia was a woman of grace," Doran's voice faltered, thick with sorrow and bitterness. "She was light itself personified." The words came with an aching weight, as though each syllable were a stone dropped into a well of grief that could never be emptied. He paused, his gaze distant, lost in the memory of his sister, and for a moment, it seemed as though time had slowed in the room. "She was my sister," he continued, his voice gaining strength but still wrapped in the shroud of loss, "and she was beloved by all of Dorne. A queen in her own right, she was. But the world that took her from us… It was not kind. Not at all."
Doran's fingers curled tightly around the armrests of his chair, the knuckles blanching white. The calm that had so often defined him slipped, just for a moment, revealing a rawness that few ever saw. The sight of it struck Edric to his core, the weight of Doran's sorrow and anger now shared between them in the silence. This was not the Lord of Sunspear, calm and calculating. This was a man who had lost everything, and was not yet done grieving.
"Elia, my sister, was taken from us," Doran's voice lowered further, a whisper of ancient pain that seemed to echo through the very walls of the room. "Along with her babes. Her two young children. A boy and a girl, barely more than babes, their futures still unwritten. They were butchered by the Lannisters… by Tywin Lannister, to be precise. To him, they were nothing but pawns to be sacrificed."
The words cut through the air, sharp as daggers, and Edric felt their sting deep within his chest. He watched Arianne, who stood at her father's side, her arms crossed and her face softening in the presence of her father's grief. Though she remained still, her eyes narrowed, her expression a mask of quiet contemplation, it was clear that she, too, felt the weight of the tale her father was telling.
"They came for her during the sack of King's Landing, after Robert Baratheon's rebellion," Doran's voice thickened with fury, the shadows in his eyes deepening with a darkness that Edric had not seen before. "They tore her from her chambers. They humiliated her. They slaughtered her babes, as though they were nothing but cattle." His voice trembled with rage, but it was a controlled rage, like a storm held just beneath the surface. "Tywin Lannister gave the orders, Amory Lorch... and that monster, Gregor Clegane, the Mountain. They were the ones who did it."
The room felt colder now, the temperature dropping as if to reflect the chilling nature of the story. The walls themselves seemed to bear the scars of the violence that Doran spoke of. There was no need for him to say more. The image was painted clearly in Edric's mind—a scene of unimaginable cruelty, a horror so deep that even the hardest heart might flinch.
"She was a Martell," Doran said, his voice softening, almost as an afterthought. "But she was a woman, and to them, that meant nothing. She died in the most horrible of ways, Edric. Not just in body, but in spirit. It was not enough to kill her, they had to break her first."
There was a flicker of something darker in Doran's eyes now, something beyond sorrow. Cold fury burned beneath the surface, a fury that had simmered for years and would never fade.
"They took Elia, and they took her babes," Doran said, his voice hardening once more, the edge of fury cutting through the quiet room. "They butchered her. She died at their hands, helpless, broken. And her children, my dear nephews, they were slaughtered too. Only a few years old, their lives snuffed out like candles in the wind."
The room was still, suffocating in the weight of the story that had just been told. Arianne's face remained unreadable, though there was no mistaking the sorrow that lay beneath her composed exterior. It was a grief shared, but buried beneath the mask of stoicism. The tale was not one of glory or tragedy alone—it was a tale of horror, of violence, of vengeance long carried in the hearts of the Martells, simmering beneath the surface.
Doran's eyes turned to Edric then, piercing and sharp, as if to make sure the weight of his words had been fully understood. There was no room for doubt now.
"The Lannisters are not to be trusted, Edric," Doran said, his voice lowering to a near whisper, but still carrying the weight of a command. "Their hands are stained with the blood of innocents, and they will stop at nothing to keep power in their grasp. They took my sister from us, and they took her children. And yet, no one speaks of this. No one remembers what they did."
Doran's eyes hardened, his resolve cutting through the sorrow that had come before. "But we have not forgotten. I have not forgotten." His gaze was sharp now, filled with quiet resolve, the pain of the past still alive but tempered by time and purpose. "And neither should you."
There was a finality in his voice, a warning unspoken but clear. The weight of history hung thick in the air, the ghosts of Elia and her children lingering like shadows in the corners of the room. Doran's gaze held Edric's, steady and unyielding, and it was as if the Lord of Sunspear was willing Edric to understand the depth of the anger, the pain, the hatred that had been borne in the hearts of his family.
"Do you understand, Edric?" Doran asked, his voice barely a whisper now, but the command in it was unmistakable. "Do you understand why Dorne holds such hatred for the Lannisters, for all that they represent?"
Doran Martell sat still as stone in his chair, his withered hands resting lightly on the arms, the light spilling through the latticework playing tricks upon his face. Arianne stood behind him, a shadow framed by the amber glow of the Dornish sun. Her expression was as much a mask as her father's, her dark eyes flicking to him for the briefest of moments before shifting back to the young man seated across from them. It was a fleeting exchange, unreadable to all but the most discerning eye—a silent question, or perhaps an unspoken warning.
Her gaze returned to Edric Stark, cool and unyielding, though her lips betrayed something more complex—a hesitation, or a calculation still unfolding. She was every inch her father's daughter in that moment. But Edric was not so easily rattled. He held her gaze for a moment longer than was perhaps wise, though it was not her he feared. It was the man seated before him, a man whose silence carried the weight of kingdoms.
When Doran spoke at last, his voice was a whisper of silk sliding over steel. "Viserys Targaryen," he began, as though tasting the name, his tone carrying no judgment, only the weight of a truth long considered. "A boy born in exile, and yet, he dreams of crowns and conquest. Such men are dangerous, Edric. They see only what they believe is owed to them, never the peril that stands in their way."
His fingers drummed against the edge of his chair, each tap a heartbeat in the quiet room. The sound was measured, deliberate, like the man himself. "He is not without cunning, though," Doran continued, his eyes narrowing as if peering through the veils of time to glimpse the shape of the future. "He has spent years wandering the Free Cities, gathering whispers and promises, weaving a web of desperation and ambition. But his true gambit lies not in the merchants of Pentos or the sellswords of Braavos. No, his eyes are set on a prize far greater."
He leaned forward then, his shadow stretching long across the stone table between them. The movement was subtle, but it carried a gravity that made Edric straighten in his chair. "Viserys has promised his sister, Daenerys, to Khal Drogo," Doran said, each word dropping like a stone into the silence. "A Targaryen princess for the might of a Khalasar. He believes the Dothraki will be his hammer, that their hordes will sweep across the Narrow Sea and crush the Seven Kingdoms beneath the hooves of a thousand horses."
Arianne shifted behind him, her gaze flickering to Edric once more, but her face betrayed nothing. Doran's voice grew quieter, darker, as though the words themselves carried a weight too great to be spoken aloud. "The Khalasar of Drogo is no mere army. They are a storm given form, swift as the wind and twice as deadly. Viserys believes he can harness that storm, that he can bend it to his will. But the Dothraki are not pawns, Edric. They are a force unto themselves, bound by blood and honor, and they do not kneel easily. This… marriage, this alliance he seeks, is as fragile as glass."
The Prince of Dorne paused then, letting the words settle like sand in the tide. The room seemed to draw tighter around them, the air heavy with unspoken possibilities. Edric felt the weight of Doran's gaze upon him, sharp and unrelenting, as though the man were measuring not just his reaction, but his very soul.
"You see, Edric," Doran said softly, his voice scarcely more than a whisper, "the world is changing. Old powers stir in the shadows, and new players rise to stake their claims. Viserys is but one piece on the board, but he is not the only one. The game is vast, and the stakes are greater than any of us can yet see. Dorne must tread carefully. There are opportunities here, yes, but dangers as well. And those who act without care…" He trailed off, the implication clear in the silence that followed.
For a moment, Doran's gaze flicked to his daughter, and Edric thought he saw something pass between them again, fleeting and impenetrable. When his eyes returned to Edric, they carried a quiet intensity, a challenge unspoken. "Knowledge is a blade, young Stark. Wield it well, and it may save you. Wield it poorly, and it will cut deeper than any steel."
The room seemed to hold its breath, and for the first time, Edric thought he saw the faintest crack in Arianne's composure—a flicker of something, too quick to name. Was it unease? Or guilt? Whatever it was, it vanished as swiftly as it had come, leaving only the stillness, and the question that now hung in the air like a drawn bowstring.
Doran Martell shifted in his chair, the movement deliberate, his gaze heavy as it settled upon the young Stark before him. The air in the chamber seemed to grow still, the faint rustle of banners outside swallowed by the weight of unspoken words. At last, the Prince of Dorne cleared his throat, the sound breaking the silence like a crack in a still pond. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a murmur, as though even the walls themselves could not be trusted with what he was about to say.
"Edric," he began, his tone low, measured, carrying the quiet gravity of a confession long buried. "There is something I must tell you. Something that has been kept in shadow for many years. Even Arianne has only now been made aware of it." He paused, his dark eyes meeting Edric's with an intensity that made it impossible to look away. "It was not my choice to keep it from her, but discretion was required. The cost of truth, too high."
The words hung in the air, a prelude to something larger, heavier. Doran's expression did not change, but his gaze grew distant, the faintest flicker of something—regret, perhaps—crossing his features. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, yet the weight of it pressed down upon the room like a stone sinking into the depths of a still pool.
"Ten years ago," he said, "after the horrors that were wrought upon Elia, Oberyn sought justice. Justice, or vengeance—oftentimes, the two are indistinguishable in a man's heart. He burned for it, as fiercely as any sun that has ever risen over Dorne. But my brother was not merely a warrior. He was a thinker, a schemer. And in his rage, he made a decision. A decision that reaches across years, across lives."
Doran's fingers brushed the armrest of his chair, his movements as precise as his words. "Oberyn, in his wisdom—or his fury—arranged a betrothal. A secret one. To Viserys Targaryen."
Edric Stark felt the words settle over him like a sudden chill, though the Dornish sun blazed just beyond the latticework. Doran's voice carried on, steady, unyielding, as if reciting a tale that had been rehearsed countless times in the quiet of his own mind.
"At the time, Viserys was little more than a boy, the last scion of a shattered dynasty. His crown was no more than a dream, a child's fancy. But Oberyn saw the power in that dream—or perhaps the power in the name. He believed that by binding Dorne to the Targaryens, we might gain leverage, strength. A way to strike at the Lannisters where it would hurt them most. For who else could challenge their claim to the throne but the blood of the dragon?"
Doran's fingers tapped once, twice, against the armrest, the sound faint but insistent, like a heartbeat in the silence. "Willam Darry, the last of the Targaryen loyalists, brokered the arrangement. It was done in secret, to ensure that neither Viserys nor Arianne would know of it. Arianne was a child—too young to understand, too young to bear the weight of such knowledge. And Viserys…" He paused, the corners of his mouth tightening faintly. "Viserys was a boy consumed by grief and bitterness, a boy who knew nothing of what the future might demand of him. Oberyn feared he would not understand the significance of such a union."
He leaned back then, his hands folding in his lap, his gaze sharpening as it returned to Edric. "The betrothal was set aside, waiting for the right moment. Oberyn believed that, in time, it would be a weapon—a tool for vengeance, for justice, for restoring what was lost. Arianne's hand in marriage to a Targaryen prince could mean the restoration of their line. And through that restoration, the fall of the Lannisters."
A silence stretched between them, heavy and unbroken, until at last, Doran spoke again, his voice tinged with something that might have been sorrow, or perhaps resignation. "Arianne was told only today. She was given no say in the matter then, just as she has none now. It was Oberyn's design, and I have carried it in secret ever since. And Viserys... Viserys does not know to this day. He has his own plans now, his own ambitions, and the betrothal remains as it always has—unfulfilled, a blade yet to be drawn."
Doran's gaze flickered briefly to his daughter, who stood silent and still behind him, her face unreadable save for a faint crease at the corner of her mouth, as if she had bitten back a question—or an accusation. "But now you understand, Edric," Doran said, his tone soft but unwavering. "You understand why you are here, why you have been betrothed to my daughter. The weight of Dorne rests upon this alliance, just as it did upon Oberyn's schemes. Arianne's fate was once tied to the Targaryens. Now it is tied to yours."
Arianne's eyes darted toward Edric, and for the first time, her composure seemed to waver. A flicker of confusion, perhaps even betrayal, passed across her face before vanishing like a shadow under the desert sun. Doran watched her for a moment, his expression unreadable, before turning back to Edric.
"The world is shifting," Doran murmured, his voice heavy with the knowledge of all that had been and all that might come. "The dragons stir once more, and the game begins anew. The question is not whether we will play, but how. That, young Stark, is what you must decide."
Edric's voice cut through the suffocating silence, sharp and unsteady, raw with the sting of betrayal. The words spilled forth before he could contain them, each one bitter on his tongue. "So I'm a placeholder, then," he said, his tone laced with incredulity and anger. His eyes locked on Doran's, unflinching, daring the Prince of Dorne to deny it. "A contingency, a backup plan in case Viserys failed. And now that you think he hasn't, what becomes of me? What becomes of her?"
Doran Martell did not flinch. The sharp edges of Edric's accusation seemed to slide off him, leaving no visible mark. He leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled before him, his expression as calm as still water. Only the faintest sigh escaped his lips, a quiet acknowledgment of the storm brewing before him.
"Yes," Doran said at last, his voice as measured as ever, each word falling like a stone into the tense quiet. "A placeholder, if you must call it that. In the game of thrones, there are many such roles. Many contingencies. It is not a slight against you, Edric, but a reflection of the world we inhabit. A world where alliances shift as swiftly as desert sands and promises are worth no more than the ink used to write them."
Edric's jaw tightened, but Doran continued, his tone steady, almost patient, as though explaining an immutable truth to a child. "Viserys was but a boy when that betrothal was made. A name and a bloodline, little more. My brother saw potential in him, but also risk. Oberyn was a man who always kept a second blade at the ready. You were that blade, Edric—a safeguard, an assurance that Dorne's future would not rest solely on the shoulders of a petulant, untested Targaryen prince."
The words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding. Edric's chest rose and fell, his breathing sharp against the stillness. Arianne, standing silent at his side, glanced between the two men, her face unreadable save for the tension in her brow and the faint tightening of her lips.
Doran's fingers began to drum lightly against the armrest of his chair, the soft, rhythmic sound filling the silence. "As for what we intend now…" he said, his voice trailing off as his gaze turned inward, as though he were weighing the shape of his thoughts. Then his eyes snapped back to Edric, sharp and clear. "Nothing has been decided. Viserys is still… unproven. He has made his alliances, but they are precarious, born of desperation rather than true strength. He may yet falter. He may yet fail. And if he does…"
He paused, his voice lowering, hardening. "If he proves unworthy of the path set before him, then we will look elsewhere. To you, to Arianne, to what is best for Dorne. Promises made in youth are no more sacred than sandcastles before the tide. The stakes are too high, Edric. For all of us."
The weight of Doran's words settled over the room, a heavy, suffocating presence. Edric felt it press against his chest, a cold realization creeping through him. This was not a question of love or loyalty, of duty or honor. It was survival—Dorne's survival. His own. And perhaps, in some distant way, the realm's.
Arianne shifted beside him, her silence louder than any outburst. Her dark eyes flicked between her father and Edric, searching for meaning, for answers, but her expression remained carefully composed. Only the faint tension in her shoulders betrayed the storm within her.
Doran leaned forward then, his voice soft but cutting, the weight of his authority behind it. "The question, Edric Stark, is not whether Viserys will rise. It is what you intend to do now. What role you will play in the path that lies ahead. Will you rise with us—or will you be left behind, as so many are, when the tides of history change?"